


A Question of Credit

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Cunnilingus, F/M, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-27 01:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: “Do you like it, John? When I say ‘fuck.’”“If you’d like me to,Signorina. I’m in your service.”





	A Question of Credit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coaldustcanary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/gifts).

When Gianna pushes open the door to the chapel, she spots John’s dark form right away, bent over in the front pew. The air smells thick and clogged, like it’s full of dust. Given the nature of the D’Antonios’ family business, maybe it’s not so surprising that the room’s fallen into some disrepute. It doesn’t take her long to reach where he is, just a few measured strides.

“You should really wash your hands.”

There is a slow trickle of blood dripping from the edge of John’s fingers.

“I will in a minute. For now I would like to be alone.”

“Santino told me where you were.” Gianna sits down next to him, but she’s mindful of his reach. John’s always twitchy after a job. By the looks of it, he’s gotten personal this time, with his hands.

“Good to know he can’t keep a secret,” John says.

“Not from me,” Gianna agrees. She crosses her legs and feels John looking at her, but he hasn’t moved his head not even an inch. “I have ways of compelling him to tell me things. Besides, he’s only a boy. Even if he might idolize you.”

John makes a sound in his throat that might be assent.

“And anyway, you’re not as alone in here as you’d think.” It’s something John probably knows already, but there’s no harm in pointing out the obvious. Even the best of men forget.

“The only thing I believe in is my hands, my strength.” John stares at his hands some more. The words might have left his mouth, but he doesn’t seem convinced by them. “Everything else is just an excuse.”

Gianna gets to her feet and immediately, John tenses up beside her, as if he expects an attack. But then he seems to remember where he is, who she is, and the tightness leaves his body in his next breath. She goes and stands between his legs, puts her knee up on the ungiving wood of the pew, very close to his groin.

He touches the edge of her dress a bare inch above her knee. Gianna can tell that the blood on John’s fingers is still wet, but it’s getting cold. Gianna looks down at the red stain on the hem of her dress.

“Even if the Lord Almighty doesn’t live here in this room, other things do. Why do you think people like you and I are bound by blood oaths and blood feuds and blood whatever the fuck.”

He’s still, but Gianna can feel his pulse. Then John says, “I didn’t know you knew the word fuck.”

“Do you like it, John? When I say ‘fuck.’”

“If you’d like me to, _Signorina_. I’m in your service.”

“You’re in my father’s service,” Gianna reminds him. “There’s a world of difference.”

He looks up at her; everything about him is dark and ungiving like a coming wave. “So maybe I’m building up credit.”

Gianna laughs, “I like that answer.”

“I thought you might,” John says, and there’s suddenly a new color in his voice. The sort of color that brings a strange warmth to her cheeks and prickles her skin. John’s hand, previously at just the hem of her dress moves to cup her gently behind her knee. His touch lingers there, as if he’s waiting for her permission.

Gianna thinks about making him wash his hands. And then she thinks, never mind.

* * *

She makes him get out of the pew and kneel in the middle of the nave. John looks pretty and penitent on his knees. He must have come in here for something and she’d hate to disappoint him. Gianna doesn’t mind the blood on his hands, not in the slightest, but she also doesn’t like mess. It’s a bit au contraire. She says, “Put your hands behind your head.”

He does, lacing long stained fingers at the back of his skull.

“Why did you use your hands?”

“Is that not allowed?”

“It’s allowed,” Gianna says. “I just didn’t think that Luca Ricci was worth your skin.” Her father doesn’t think she knows, but she does. There’s very little that Gianna doesn’t know.

John smiles, “The thing about a hired dog, about being in service, _Signorina_, is that we’re not worth very much. We are only worth what people are willing to pay.”

“Is this you wanting me to talk to Papa about a pay rise?” Every month, a not unsizable fee is deducted from a certain account in Milano. They don’t usually go for flat fees, but nobody wants to say it - the D’Antonios can’t afford to pay the Baba Yaga by the job.

But that can change. It will change. It’s only a matter of time.

John just shrugs. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I am.”

“Then thank me.”

He seems surprised, but only for a second.

Gianna lifts the hem of her skirt, up and up. John is rapt with attention. When she steps up to him, he bends his head without being told to, and mouths purposefully at the inside of her thighs and then up towards the edge of her panties.

Then John guides the thin smooth fabric covering her cunt in slow, agonizing circles with his tongue. Gianna grips his bloodied, torn knuckles as she rubs herself against his tongue, slowly, as not to waste even one flick of his gratitude. She thinks, _ good dog_.


End file.
